


The Karen

by Patmos



Category: Original Work
Genre: Comedy, Gen, Noodles - Freeform, Wholesome, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22258027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patmos/pseuds/Patmos
Summary: A group of hardworking zombie hunters just want some noodles.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	The Karen

**Author's Note:**

> I think this would make a good comic, but with my hands being messed up, I gotta pick my battles.

The slaughter was done. Fifty zombies had been given their permanent rest, and the band of seven apocalypse warriors hadn't lost anyone or been bitten. As the adrenaline wore off they inspected arms and legs for wounds, griping about the little inconveniences of social collapse and ignoring the Karen they'd happened to rescue.

"Can we hit up a CZS on the way home? We're out of the good soap."

"Shit, the elbows are out in my shirt again. Can we swing by the mall?"

"Hey look, Rame- oh. No it's just an empty wrapper. I really wanted noodles…."

"Everybody shut it. We can't risk the CZS again, patch your shirt, damn it, and no, stop giving me sad eyes. Ain't a one of us can make noodles."

"I can make noodles."

The rough and tough group turned as one to stare at the Karen. That was what they called middle-aged white women who still weren't aware that the end of the world had arrived six months ago. You’d be surprised how many were actually out there. Usually the group directed them to the nearest civilian center run by the military.

She certainly looked like a Karen. White woman in her late 40's, button-up blouse and quaint black slacks. Sneakers that probably cost three digits and were only a little scuffed. She was blonde with grey roots, grey eyes, plucked brows, clean nails. She could have been anything from a massage therapist to a hostess at Olive Oil Garden. It looked like someone had been taking care of her in a bunker the last six months.

"What?" said Red Sun, the nominal leader of their group.

"I know how to make noodles from scratch," she said, clutching a high-end duffle bag. "And at least five kinds of bread. Please take me with you."

Gator gasped and pulled at Red Sun's sleeve. "Noodles and bread, Sun," he whispered energetically. " _ Noodles. And. Bread. _ Can we keep her?"

Red Sun ignored Gator. "What else can you do? We got flour but even that'll run out."

The Karen licked her lips and took a deep breath. "I can knit and sew. Not just simple stuff but leather, too. I can patch."

"I'm sold," muttered Dog Guts, fingering her torn sleeves.

"I can make soap and candles. Keep a garden and animals. Preserve just about any food. Make simple shoes, weave baskets, butcher animals, catch fish, and a lot more.” She looked at them all in turn, her face desperate. “And I can cook just about anything."

"Huh." Red Sun smirked and gestured her into the center of their band of 20-somethings. She hurried in amongst them, and the safety of their weapons. "Guess you ain't a Karen after all."

"I have a bunkbed," Gator gushed, hugging the woman around the shoulders. To her credit, she didn’t flinch under his enthusiasm and bad breath. "You can pick whichever one you want."

"Thank you," she said, a touch awkwardly. "My name is--"

"We don't use old names," Red Sun explained, hauling Gator back into position. "We pick new ones."

She digested this information as they moved, heading for the outskirts of town. Finally she said, "My name is Nerak."

Karen backwards.

For the first time in six months, Red Sun laughed.


End file.
